The Great Motorcycle Escape.

It's no small irony that motorcycle wheels cause revolutions. After Ernesto toured South America on a bike, he wrote a diary. Evel took his bike on some pretty sweet jumps, breaking bones and records in the making. The entire movies of Easy Rider and Garden State need no verb. And so I planned one of those great motorcycle tales that would echo through my children when losing the battle of who's dad can beat up who. The greatest ride of them all filled with turmoil, doubt, and corn. Villainy, super powers, and more corn. Conflict, resolution, and leftover corn!

The clouds were lifted dry and higher as summer's curtain, that blanket heat sopped with sweat and melted sweets, began to blow in the autumn air. Wrestling leaves into the cold rustling colors of rust and gold and red, the autumn air crept through the forest floor before raking fields clean of all crops still clinging to greener days. This was the time for great predators. Mechanized reapers lay in wait before the harvests. Hunters steady and linebackers call their marks. All exhale, long and slow, fueling the autumn air as it pawed against my idle frame. I sat motionless but not effortless against the wind as if running, diving, and falling prostrate. The autumn air rolled, seamless and frayed into gusts of willful banter behind my back. And then it started: the slow cyclic chime of plastic carburetors peaking in a fiery chain. The wind rescinded over hushed husks in awe as the throttle exhaled. This was my motorcycle awake.

The enemy had fortified its position with enriched minerals and corn. The enemy was many, recruited from seasons past, and now hardened soldiers. They were experienced, every one having earned the rank of kernel or higher. The enemy sat behind, within the walls, their ears now deaf to my cries and the howl of the engine passing forth and fro. The silos towered directly between the unmeasurable ends of the earth. There was no secret path, no hidden weakness. There was no way around it: I was no hero yet to thwart their heinous cause. And so my travels began...

The enemy had delicately crafted their propaganda machines. They drove the cereal industry, the newspapers, and the radio waves. All were perfectly aligned with the ill-willed cause only a generic enemy could imagine. Any grass-roots campaigns were cast to the side like pests while the lies and deceit had their hay day. The truth was scarce, and spies were treated for their treason. When the enemy would discover it had been bugged, death would rain from the skies to strike down the insurgents. And so the seeds of fear were sewn. None would stand against them -- none would go against the grain.

The ever-listening ear of the enemy was growing stronger, and still my hands held empty only the grips of my faithful ride. I brandished no weapon, and knew no spells of magic. The engine crawled against the elements and under earth as the quest drove further and further from the enemy's walls. I crossed the other side of the tracks: a land unknown and unkempt from the orderly rows that marched the enemy in field after field. I had to press on in my search.

My mind rolled over and over the menacing plot, the full-proof evil schemes that seemed only to miss one thing: a weakness. Was there a woman camptured against her will? Was a sidekick stripped from the close shade of a super power? What did the enemy even want!? Power and money? I could only imagine what would happen if the global demands weren't met -- and so I did. Were there global demands? Were they encrypted into the fields, the propaganda, the very silo wall itself? The answers wouldn't figure as the problem took shape: the enemy was growing more powerful with each twisted arm the clocks contorted.

The other side of the tracks was barren and harsh. There were few places to rest our travels, and none to rest my thoughts.

Time crept by and space conceded. The kingdoms in the distant lands of the other side of the tracks knew a great evil was spreading. Ages of trees were hewn into spikes and re-rooted as barricades that would never nurture life again. Gates would not open and I could draw no bridge for aid in my quest.

I became maddened by the idle quest. The ground turned beneath my wheels became lost. Time passed and collected in my boots with a muddy film that made each step harder, heavier, and just a little bit more squishy. The enemy had crossed to the other side of the tracks, and in a blinded fury I charged across the countryside. The throttle unbridled and without governance, feeding a momentum that carried my cries like a sordid whisper bristling against my cheeks and seeping into my own ears. Faster, and faster we bled, the motorcycle and I, together bending without bracing and reaching limits broken.

And together, we crashed.

Blackness caked my open eyes and the air that carried my lungs now lingered inches away from my beckoning lips -- careful that the next breath may not release. It was in this dizzying array that I heard a voice.

"...enemy has grown stronger," the ailing friend exhaled.

"listen. closely, for I know the weakness in the silo. I know, the secret words and the guides that will show you the path. I know the blacksmith that holds the sword. I know the enemy will unfurl. I know you will succeed..." the friend's words stumbled as they dodged the mess of broken organs and teeth.

The friend's final air bore all of the wisdom succumbed to his life and flooded into my lungs. I could breathe again. I knew I'd survive. I knew that the enemy of my enemy would now rest ever more. But most importantly, I knew where to find the mechanica grand that could revive my motorcycle now in ruin.

The mechanica grand watched me approach his guild, dragging the remnants of my faithful ride. Days passed in darkness while he tended to the motorcycle wounds. When he was finished, he granted the motorcycle new-found powers and speed. He souped up my bike.

The quest endured. I hid the weapon square between my shoulder blades and the secret words under my tongue. The enemy shook and quelled before the motorcycle could be seen over the hill. I returned to the wall. Now was the time for great predators. Now I was one.

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